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Monday, September 1, 2014

It's one of those intensely humid mornings when I can feel the bread molding in the breadbox and the living-room rug emits the ghostly fragrance of everything that has ever been spilled on it. But now here comes a glint of sunshine, striving to penetrate the fog.

Shall I go to the Labor Day parade or not? It is always exactly the same: clowns, politicians, snowmobile-club floats, Shriners, fire engines, antique cars. Predictability is not bad, but do I want to sit on a wet sidewalk for it? I'm thinking that I don't.

Yesterday I worked on a poem, and it's conceivable I might work on it again today. Choosing words for myself felt good. There hasn't been much of that lately: just lots and lots of choosing words for other people. And I'm definitely going to harvest, blanch, and freeze chard, and make a batch of dill pickles, and listen to afternoon baseball on the radio. Come visit, and I'll put you to work, in the nicest possible way. You'll enjoy it. Some of the most intelligent, thoughtful, hilarious conversations arise while stripping chard and packing pickle jars.

This is one of the secrets women have been keeping from men. As Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz wrote in the 1600s,

As women, what wisdom may be ours if not the philosophies of the kitchen? Lupercio Leonardo spoke well when he said: how well one may philosophize when preparing dinner. And I often say, when observing these trivial details: had Aristotle prepared victuals, he would have written more.

Two things come to mind: First, I was reading Aristotle today (On Poetics) and I was thinking of you...he would have approved, I think. Second, to Ruth's comment: women have gravitated to the food area because one can only consume so much burnt flesh...lol